


steel your heart, the dawn will come

by lillibattenberg



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Al just really misses his queen, Angst, F/M, King Alistair (Dragon Age), King Alistair and Queen Cousland, Masturbation, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, kind of, minor smuttiness, no beta we die like darkspawn, or possibly during idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-30
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:34:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27289474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lillibattenberg/pseuds/lillibattenberg
Summary: Alistair - sorry, King Alistair Calenhad Theirin the Wise - has been ruling for ten years. In public, he remains the stoic, smiling ruler of a prosperous nation, unfazed by his queen's long absence as she quests for a cure for the Calling.In private, he grieves.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age), Alistair/Warden (Dragon Age)
Kudos: 15





	steel your heart, the dawn will come

**Author's Note:**

> Not actually a songfic, but I was listening to Chris Martin's cover of Let Her Go the whole way through this, and I'm pretty sure it had an effect. Anyway, enjoy!

It's already dark when Alistair finally enters his chambers. As he strips off the layers of regalia that mark him as king, he reflects on the day. It went well, for what it's worth. He must have heard a thousand petitions, pleas and judgements today - and every one of them without the help of his most trusted advisor.

Alistair smiles. Gabriel, his political advisor, _really_ hates it when Alistair calls Loreley that. Not only is he vying for the position himself (not realising he's too much of an arsehole to ever be trusted), but he has "concerns" about the image it projects. The king is biased, they'll say, he only listens to his wife. Alistair finally called him on his bullshit today - technically, if Gabriel wants to be picky, Loreley should be his queen- _consort_ , but Alistair trusts her enough to let her rule by his side. It wasn't that lust warped into trust, but that trust deepened into love. Perhaps if she was his mistress, Gabriel would be right to have a problem. But no, she's his equal, and they rule equally. Together, as husband and wife.

Or they would do, if she was still here.

Alistair flops backwards onto the bed and stares, unseeing, at the ceiling. He's so blighted _tired_. It's not even the kind of tired he should be - sitting around, arse perched on a cushy throne, isn't enough exercise for _anyone_ with two legs. And Alistair's a Grey Warden, whatever else he is, and Warden strength and stamina are the stuff of legend. So no, he's not the good kind of tired, the kind with bruises and happy aches and the knowledge that he'll really regret this tomorrow when he wakes up all stiff and sore. Instead, strong, stoic Alistair, bastard prince turned templar recruit turned Warden turned king, is tired of being away from Loreley with no way of knowing whether she's alive. He's tired of missing his one true love, unable to move on because _what if she comes back?_ He's tired of worrying for the safety of the one woman who should be more worried about him. Maker, he's even tired of realising that he's turning into that cocky bastard from templar school. Damn, he can't remember Blondie's name now, just that he always tried to convince Alistair that said Maker was still looking out for him even after he'd pissed off the mother for the five hundredth time. Alistair has never been the best at the whole religion thing, but lately, much to his horror, he's turned into the worst kind of cliché. He's become the fucking "cultural Andrastian who turns to faith in his darkest hour" from every shittily-written propaganda pamphlet this side of the Frostbacks. He supposes it's good to dump all his problems on someone else, even one who might not exist, but no - he's going full forelock-tugging arse-kisser in his desperation.

_Desperation that might not even be worth it,_ he thinks. _Though all before me is shadow, yet shall the Maker give up on me like everyone else in my life._

_Well. **Almost** everyone else._

_Maker, I miss her._

The moonlight casts one such shadow on the ceiling as Alistair lazily, almost mindlessly, reaches down for his cock. He pulls with something halfway between a stroke and a tug, and the soft skin rasps under his calloused fingers. He tries to remember her face, her steely blue-grey eyes turning molten under his gaze, her silken black hair wrapped gently around his fingers, her quim shuddering and pulsating around his - oh, fuck it all. This isn't helping. No matter how much he tries to fantasize, to leave marks on his arm as if it's her neck or to run his fingers down his body like they're hers, he's just not feeling it tonight. He's lonely. He's bored. But one thing Alistair doesn't want is sex.

_Maker_ , that's hard to realize. Because sex is easy. Alistair has a whole bank of fantasies he can use to tide himself over until Loreley gets back: joyous reunion sex and "fuck you for leaving" sex and "I've cured you, so I own you" sex and _Maker's breath_ that last one is finally doing something to him and he tugs himself again but all it does is make him uncomfortably hard and _it's just not the same without you, my love._ He tries once more, a gentle touch full of the promise of the best night he's ever had, and it almost works. He leans back, closes his eyes and slowly exhales, and Loreley scrunches up her little button nose because _you blew right in my face, Al_ and Alistair jerks upright and apologizes profusely and realizes too late that he's apologizing to empty air. Loreley disappears into the darkness, and Alistair is left alone and cold. And hard. It's almost funny, he thinks, that he's as hard and cold tonight as the world feels without her. He kicks down the duvet like it insulted his mother - and fuck, what he wouldn't give to be able to have her tell him it would be alright - and clambers in between the layers of sheets. Petulantly rolling away from the door, he pulls the blankets over himself, flexing a leg to soften himself up. If she isn't there, he doesn't want it. He doesn't even care what "it" is. It could be the best sex of his life, the sort that makes a desire demon look like a virginal Chantry sister. It could be true love, the real thing that proves his attraction to Loreley a mild infatuation based on nothing but proximity and familiarity. It could be a whole litter of mabari puppies sired by none other than Piper, Loreley's faithful, furry friend. Void, it could be all three: his true love walks through the door, arms full of puppies, and sets them down gently by the fire, before using her clever mouth and nimble fingers to make _thanking_ her an attractive prospect.

_Fuck,_ he thinks, _this isn't helping. I already know who my true love is, and she's halfway across Thedas right now._ And so King Alistair Calenhad Theirin the Wise, the man who revels in the insults hurled at him by every two-bit bigot with a bias against elves, who waves off every hardship with a smile and a sarcastic joke, cries himself to sleep.


End file.
